


So close that your hand upon my chest is mine

by elliceluella



Category: Daredevil (TV), The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Marriage Proposal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 05:33:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16212476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elliceluella/pseuds/elliceluella
Summary: Matt hates how four words can hold so much weight, bearing down hard with a million unknowns and fears but one thing’s for certain, they’re nowhere near as terrifying as three other words.





	So close that your hand upon my chest is mine

**Author's Note:**

> In hasty, ridiculously fluffy, self indulgent defiance to the upcoming season 3.

Matt hates how four words can hold so much weight, bearing down hard with a million unknowns and fears but one thing’s for certain, they’re nowhere near as terrifying as three other words. And Matt’s so glad he got those out years ago, he’s so glad he continued to say them again and again until the terror he felt became less so and was eventually fully replaced by brightness. His favorite part about all this though, is how Foggy’s warm glow was always the constant.

“Again. And try not to look like you’re passing a stone,” Jessica says, and then, “what? I’m just being honest!” when Danny probably does something like glare disapproving chi at her or something.

Luke just shakes his head at her and Jess grumbles about how she’s surrounded by bleeding-heart idiots.

Matt rolls his shoulders to release the tension in them, takes a deep breath, works his jaw, and tries again. “Will you marry me?” The smile plastered on his face wobbles slightly. Okay, it wobbles a lot. God, why is this so hard?

Luke laughs very loudly, the unhelpful jerk, and Danny’s enthusiastic “much better!” complete with two thumbs up almost covers the “Jesus, we’re going to be here all day” that Jess mutters into her glass. Well, almost.

I.

Foggy knows they’ve talked about it, not painfully straight on but it’s definitely been woven into past conversations— random questions about long term plans for their future that extend beyond Nelson & Murdock. Sometimes it’s playful like furniture shopping or getting a pet, and sometimes it veers more into more serious territory like starting a family. Tiny, deceptively casual bits here and there in a harmless way to feel things out, to see if they’re both on the same track and if not, how best to realign.

Neither of them brings up spousal privilege because that alone isn’t a good enough reason to do it. But it’s there, and some nights, when Matt stumbles home tired and bruised and bleeding Foggy’s fears rush to the surface and he wishes it were, because he’d do anything to keep Matt safe.

Those conversations have been happening more lately, slightly more blunt and at a rate that gets him sweaty palmed. In a good way, of course. He knows in his bones that he is Matt’s and nothing will keep him away— falling buildings be damned— but what if they’re... there’s always an irrational part of his brain (unhelpfully supplied by his penchant for celebrity news) that worries they’ll go the way of Brangelina. What if there’s something about marriage that heightens everything and alters chemistry? What if marrying the love of his life is what ruins them?

“I swear, if that face is about your boyfriend I’m leaving right now.”

“Sorry.” Foggy turns and grins, sheepish.

Marci rolls her eyes but signals the bartender for two more of...whatever they’ve been drinking. “Okay. Spill.”

Foggy runs a hand over his face and sighs. “This is probably ninety nine percent the alcohol talking but do you think marriage is something that’ll work for us?”

Marci stares at him for a second before bursting out in laughter.

Foggy scowls. “What?”

“You’re asking me? _Me_?”

“Figured you’d tell it like it is.” Foggy gives up the scowl and shrugs.

Marci hums, and Foggy is suddenly overwhelmed with emotion when she looks like she’s seriously considering his question. Liquid courage, apparently also liquid feels.

“You know where I stand on the issue, but.” Marci reaches over and gives his hand a light squeeze, and Foggy resolutely does not cry, “Knowing you guys since law school and considering what you’ve told me about the stuff you’ve worked through, I think marriage would suit you both fine.”

Okay, maybe Foggy lets himself cry a little at that. “Thanks, Marce.”

“I better get an invite to the wedding.”

*

“We gotta take a break, Matt looks like he’s going to pop something that can’t be re-attached,” Jessica says, dryly, from where she’s perched on Matt’s counter stool.

Matt sulks but he doesn’t quite have it in him to argue with her, so he stops pacing, sinks back onto the couch and tries to remain grateful that he has friends who are willing to help.

He’s about to open his mouth and express some— definitely not all of it, not if he doesn’t want his butt handed to him— of that gratitude when Jess puts a hand up. “No need to say whatever it is you’re going to say, Murdock. Let’s just get through this train wreck,” she says, voice gruff with affection.

Matt gives her a lopsided smile. She’d definitely get along with Josie.

“So, what kind of ring you got in mind?” Luke asks as he hands Matt a beer from his own fridge.

Matt’s only aware his face is doing that thing Foggy calls a dying fish until it’s too late, because Danny asks, slow, like he’s approaching a scared, confused animal, “Matt? You’ve at least thought about it, right?”

“Um,” Matt squeaks. He was wrong. This is _one hundred percent_ just as bad as saying “I love you”.

Jessica groans. “Smite me, god of thunder,” she says and thuds her head against the counter.

II.

None of them dares to approach Karen for help— although Foggy almost does, in a moment of weakness— because she is Switzerland in their relationship, and also because she does not suffer fools gladly. Foggy loves her for it.

He also loves that they’re working together again. He’s never stopped dreaming about their— what did he once call it in jest, before they picked the office? Right, ‘palace’. There are so many memories, good and bad, etched into the walls and seeped into floor boards: celebrating over casseroles and champagne, the hours spent burning the midnight oil together, the emotions that stewed until they bubbled over. It’s the place where they became a family.

One particular day Karen abruptly and very randomly announces that Frank _owns_ an actual harp and that his harp-playing services are available for any...events that might happen in the future. Stunned silence rings loudly for a moment.

“And you know this how?” Foggy’s not sure when he’d stepped into some kind of bizarro universe.

“He told me.”

“I’m assuming his performance will be titled “Ode to gunfire and things that go boom”?

And suddenly Karen is grinning wide, cheshire cat-style. “Things that go boom, all right. Frank’s great at playing _Canon_ in D.”

Foggy very elegantly snorts water down the wrong pipe and Matt just dazedly pats him on the back. Karen smirks so hard behind her computer it’s almost audible.

*

Matt practices his breathing exercises for thirty counts (“See, it totally works!” “Yes, thank you Danny.” “Do you need some water?” “No thank you Danny.”) and remembers that he’s still got his dad’s old ring, a plain simple gold band. It’s one of the few things he’s got left of his dad’s, and one of his few treasured possessions. Danny kindly offers to get it polished and promises to get it back to him when they’re out on their patrol together later.

III.

Foggy maybe half-gushes-half-panics in front of his mother when he visits, but she laughs in that way that instantly puts him at ease because she understands what he’s going through, kisses his forehead and heads to her bedroom. She returns with a small box that she presses into his hand and smoothes down his hair, eyes shining bright. Foggy gets misty eyed too.

“My sweet, sweet boy. You’ve never quite lit up the way you did when you first told us about Matt all those years ago,” she says, thumbing his tears away. “That scary thing that sits in the pit of your stomach? It’s a good thing, darling. It means you’ll never take what you two have for granted.” She smiles. “I can’t wait to see Matt wearing your grandpa’s ring. It’s going to give the two of you as many happy years as it did for him and mom,” she says, and Foggy gratefully clings to that blessing, painfully aware of how precious, and fleeting, their time together is.

*

They meet at a rooftop five blocks away from his apartment. Danny passes the ring back to Matt, who tucks it in securely into his boot. He claps a hand, light and friendly, on Matt’s shoulder when he sees the smile on Matt’s face but doesn’t say anything about it.

“So, you got a specific date or place planned for when you’re gonna do it?” he asks. “If you want, I could help to close Ladurée for a private event, or Bryant Park, the High Line, the Met, or—”

Matt knows Danny’s been getting savvy with the internet but he dearly hopes he didn’t get all that from TripAdvisor or some travelogue. He shakes his head.

“I just wanted to be prepared for when the moment strikes so I don’t look like an idiot,” he confesses.

“There’s no shame in being an idiot for love. To put yourself out there, in love, in _faith_ of that love, it’s the least we can aspire to be,” Danny says, sagely, then undercuts the moment a little by stroking the sparse hair on his chin.

Matt’s glad he got to know Danny. He wishes everyone had a Danny in their lives.

IV.

For all that Foggy’s brain provides him with great swathes of idyllic romantic overtures— it happens while glamping on a safari complete with the halo of a golden sunset behind them; on the cobblestone sidewalk during a rainy evening in Europe where everything’s glittering like diamonds; after a sweet piano serenade; hell, even on a magic carpet ride— he knows there’s magic in the mundane as well.

He imagines strong, gentle arms circling his waist while he’s in the middle of doing the dishes, the question a warm whisper in his ear; or maybe while they’re on the couch watching a movie, sock-clad feet idly playing footsie; in a quaint little bookstore, or, _or_. Popping the question while still bleary eyed with goofy bedhead just to see Matt’s initial surprise morph back into a sleep-soft smile that gradually creeps wider and brighter. He could live on those smiles forever.

He doesn’t tell Matt about the exchange he had with his mother because, well, it seems Franklin ‘Guts’ Nelson has gone on vacation.

He putters around their— their! he feels like he needs to pinch himself sometimes— apartment, does a load of laundry before settling down with a glass of red and TV reruns.

Matt slips in a few hours later when Foggy’s already asleep, moving with none of the slowness and stiffness that betray injury. It’s been a good night. Foggy wakes just enough to notice all that, say “hey” and kiss him.

He misses the little brown box that Matt quickly tucks into his trunk along with his Daredevil suit, the way Matt’s arms go around him a little tighter once he slips under the covers, and the silent promises Matt kisses into the back of his neck.

\---

Matt isn’t above admitting he’s so afraid he’ll miss the perfect moment that he’s resorted to taking the ring with him everywhere he goes, always securely keeping it somewhere on his person, its presence so warm and heavy he’s surprised Foggy hasn’t remarked on his odd behavior.

Luke’s infuriatingly chill comment that “when you know, you know” becomes the mantra that he subscribes to, but it’s been days and thoughts of _maybe I should’ve risked Foggy’s suspicion and gone ahead with a grand gesture_ start to creep in. He doesn’t know how many more this-is-perfectly-normal moments he can continue having with Foggy.

Like tonight. Dinner is simple: pizza and pot stickers, nothing to coo about. It’s delicious, moderately unhealthy, it does the job. Matt’s so distracted he barely tastes whatever he’s putting into his mouth. He needs to clear his head.

Foggy grabs a couple of beers and heads upstairs to the rooftop after dinner, because somewhere along the way they have successfully _adulted_ to the point where they’ve become proud owners of a couple of chic _neon green_ patio lounge chairs. At least, that’s the ridiculously vague non-answer they tell anyone who comments on the rooftop furniture, because no one needs to know that the real reason involved tequila and Groupon, not if they can help it.

Color choice of patio furniture aside, it’s nice up here. It’s simple but peaceful, there’s a gentle breeze and Foggy’s humming, happily remarking on the full moon. Something melancholic twinges in Matt’s chest, a future ache for every night to be like this. He dearly wishes he could preserve it, warm and welcoming and always ready to be re-lived. There’s not going to be a more perfect night. The thought strikes something deep within him and he gasps softly when it lingers, hot and sure, coiling round his chest until it takes his breath away.

“Matt? Are y— does someone need help?”

“Uh, no, it’s—” Matt flaps a hand. He’s become so used to being around Foggy without his glasses, glad that he finally has someone to share his vulnerability with but now he’s hyper-aware of its absence, hates how it’s giving him away.

He tries to school his expression into something more placid but judging by Foggy’s snort it’s not working. Well then.

 _Here goes nothing,_ he thinks. His fingers begin their slow crawl towards his pocket.

“Oh no,” Foggy says.

Matt’s pretty sure he’s going to have a heart attack.

 

“Oh no,” Foggy says, because he’s sure, he’s pretty darn sure they both knew at the same time. Matt that he was going to propose, and Foggy that Matt was going to do it. Which is only mildly unfortunate, of course. Foggy always did enjoy being first in these things. He was the first to say “I love you”, and...well.

He supposes it’s only fair that Matt’s the first one this time.

“No?” Matt looks startled and confused and scared and— boy does Foggy want to stick hs foot in his mouth when he realizes how his “oh no” must have come across.

“Sorry, sorry,” he cringes as he apologizes and wills his body to send some kind of signal so that Matt knows he means every word. He reaches over to give Matt’s arm a gentle squeeze and the amount of relief that washes over Foggy when Matt stops panicking and starts doing that hesitant smiling thing is so staggering it’s laughable. The knowledge that Matt’s smile still elicits an affectionate sigh every time he sees it is ridiculous. He loves it.

“I was just— nevermind, not important. You um— you were going to say something?”

 

“Foggy Nelson.” Matt’s voice trembles but he takes a breath and carries on. The short speech he had planned before popping the question has fluttered away but it’s only a minor disappointment because he’s got much more important things to focus on, like how he’s being surrounded by everything Foggy: the way his heartbeat speeds up, his breathy and shallow breaths, skin growing warm, hands slightly clammy. Matt smiles because he knows he’s not alone.

Matt Murdock is an idiot for love, and said idiot is ready to leap off the proverbial cliff.

Scratch that, he’s ready to _soar_ . “Will you marry me?”

 

Foggy says yes, of course he does. There are no fireworks, but reality falls into a nice medium between the grand gestures in his mind and what he thought real life would be. One thing’s for sure though. That heart-swelling three-sixty camera spin? _Totally_ there. Matt slides his ring on, reverently and with shaking fingers, and Foggy gathers him in his arms. They’re both crying, happy tears that Foggy immediately kisses away.

Matt slides gentle fingers over Foggy’s mouth, up over his cheeks, and brushes Foggy’s hair off his forehead before cradling his head in his hands. His gorgeous smile grows wider and more brilliant by the second and Foggy’s heart grows about three sizes bigger.

“Foggy,” Matt breathes.

“Yeah, Matt. A thousand times yes.”

Matt laughs, so bright and happy Foggy’s reminded of the boy he met all those years ago.

Warm, soft lips press against Foggy’s and he surrenders completely, sighing into the kiss. Their teeth clack against each other’s when he kisses back a little too enthusiastically and they laugh, but Matt loses no time before he’s back on Foggy’s mouth again, earnest and eager and sealing a promise to Foggy’s lips that Foggy reciprocates with everything he’s got, putting the things that’s threatening to burst out of his chest into the kiss.

He’s lost count of how long they’ve stayed in each others’ arms, foreheads touching and trading breaths, Matt breathing deeply like he’s trying to memorize everything about Foggy in this moment. It’s only when Foggy runs his hand up Matt’s chest and Matt’s hand traps his there that he realizes—

“Oh!” Foggy says.

“What?”

“Stay right here,” Foggy says, pecks Matt quickly on the cheek and rushes back down to retrieve Matt’s ring. His steps are quick and light, it’s a miracle he hasn’t flown away yet.

Matt knows what Foggy rushes off to retrieve, can probably sense every flutter in Foggy’s heartbeat when he opens the box to double check that it’s still there and yet his lip trembles, watery smile matching his damp eyes when Foggy slides the ring onto his finger and kisses it. Some of his tears catch on his eyelashes and it glitters in the light. It’s magic.

When Matt flexes his fingers and takes a moment to relish the new weight in his hand, the feel of metal slowly warming to his skin, something proud and possessive zings through Foggy. He shivers when Matt’s hand cups the curve of his jaw and leans in for another kiss.

“I think Mum may be more excited than I am that I’m marrying you,” he murmurs against Matt’s mouth.

Matt laughs. “Well at least that means we’ve secured our wedding planner.”

Foggy groans softly. He curls his fingers in Matt’s collar and hides his face in Matt’s neck. “Let’s just please have a simple courthouse thing,” he pleads. “No fuss no muss. Save us a lot of grief.”

Matt chuckles. “Sure, sweetheart. Whatever you want.”

Foggy presses his smile to Matt’s skin. “Hey, Matty?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“Love you too, cookie pie.”

Foggy squints up at him. “Oh, so we’re starting on the names now, are we?”

“No idea what you’re talking about, smoochy twinkle,” Matt says, failing horribly at keeping a straight face.

Foggy laughs. “Oh, just you wait,” he says. “Once my brain’s not hopped up on all the...love pheromones I am going to create a list of nicknames so long it’ll put our toilet roll to shame.”

“Who says I’m going to give you a chance to recover?” Matt asks, voice suddenly dropping low just as that Daredevil smile comes out to play: all teeth, sharp and dangerous and, _oh_. Playing dirty, Murdock. The skin under Foggy’s collar grows hot and Matt only somewhat ruins the moment by tittering like the dork he knows Foggy adores.

Foggy’s never been more delighted. He’s also never been more in love.

\---

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Pablo Neruda's One Hundred Love Sonnets: XVII because I am a hopeless romantic.
> 
> Come squee with me about season 3 [on Tumblr!](http://ellicelluella.tumblr.com)


End file.
